A Boston Love Story 1965
by glindalovesshoes
Summary: DragonQueen / Historical AU / "Regina," Mal whispers. She freezes, grips the balustrade with her hands so hard she can see the white of her knuckles. It's her. Of course it's her. The only human who would care if she jumps is the woman who has probably killed three of her husbands, the woman she's met less than four hours ago. "Leave me alone."
A/N: Hey everyone! I wrote something other than OQ for a change - my very guilty pleasure apart from EvilCharming - DragonQueen! I do hope we will get to see Maleficent in S6. Thanks to the wonderful waterbaby for betaing and thanks to you guys for giving this a chance. I know there are some other DragonQueen shippers out there who might appreciate this. I'd love to hear what you think!

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A Boston Love Story 1965

There are piquant topics hanging in the air of the ballroom, gliding along with the music in a hushed tone. Words are bubbling out of everyone, just like the little bubbles of gas in the champagne, and the more champagne floats, the more reckless words are looking for someone to be heard. It seems as if everyone has to say something, men as well as women, even though the latter is silently asked to keep it quiet and not talk about things they have no knowledge of. Everyone knows something - everyone feels obligated to voice their opinion. Empty talk, empty words which repeat and repeat themselves, since nobody really knows what they're even talking about. Some are confident the war is over, while others think the war has only just begun. The Cold War with Russia, troops in Vietnam, just to name a few of the hot topics. Of course, there also is the much smiled at Civil Rights Movement from which nobody knows if, after everything that happened, they should treat it seriously or disregard it as a joke.

It's not like she's interested in any of the topics, as she stands there, young, graceful, in her expensive new dress, next to her not so new or faithful husband, who doesn't even try to hide his relishing gazes at the dancing bodies of the female guests. If someone would actually look at her, they would see the disgust on her face, but nobody did thanks to Leopold Blanchard.

Her husband, the widower she married about a year ago, the man who wanted her with everything he had, who proposed to her after just one night of dancing and charming his way into her mother's good graces. Not hers, for she, he doesn't care about. It's a proposal she only agreed to because of her pushing, attention-seeking mother. Her (in the eyes of the guests) oh- so-wonderful husband who likes to parade her around like a prize winning stallion to everyone who is willing enough to look, but who then ignores her for the rest of the evening. Her opinion to all of this? Nonexistent. Perhaps, if someone asked her for her opinion, then, maybe, she would have something to say. She's not uneducated, her mother had seen to that, and even though Leopold forbids her to say anything on a regular basis, disregarding her views as naïve and ridiculous, she knows what she is talking about - if she gets the chance to that is. But nobody dares to talk to her. The men, because they are afraid of the wrath of her ever-jealous husband and the ladies - well, she is young, attractive and married to the richest man in Boston. That says everything, right?

Her freshly manicured fingernails clink against the champagne flute in her hand, allow the tiny bubbles to rebel against the hold of the glass, to rise up and burst at the surface. One after the other, they vanish from the restraint of the flute into the air with a soft prickling. Careless, free. It reminds her of the people on the street, who call for freedom, equality, their rights. Well, what is with her right to be free? Free… what is that again? Words she's banned from her mind for a long time, unwillingly swapped against permanent dissatisfaction and boredom. Cruel boredom, today, just like on other days only interrupted by short looks up to the clock on the wall which seems to be mocking her, since it isn't moving at all. Her gaze is glued to the clock hands.

This is why she only sees her now, when she's almost standing right in front of her with her black sleeveless dress, the heavy diamonds around her neck, the perfect blonde locks with the red lipstick - a stark but welcome contrast. Her smile's a little cold, her eyes seem bored and disinterested, annoyed maybe, a look she knows only too well.

"I'm happy you received my invitation, Mrs. Feuerbach," Leopold smiles, followed by a bow and a pretend kiss onto her gloved hand. It is all an act of courtesy, all an act in general. While his eyes scan her body up and down, Mrs. Feuerbach draws her hand away, throwing a sharp look his way before she turns to his lovely wife.

She has only one word to describe the moment their eyes meet, has read about it, has heard about it, has seen it in the movie theatres. It's magic. It's the most wonderful moment she's ever experienced, and the sudden bright smile the blonde gives her makes a shudder run down her back. It is as if someone has opened up all doors of the ballroom to let the cold air of the upcoming winter inside, while at the same time if feels like all her blood is rushing into her cheeks. Is she drunk? No, she cannot be that drunk, can she? Nevertheless, she makes the champagne responsible for her sudden dizziness, lowers her gaze ashamed and thus missing the moment Mrs. Feuerbach raises an amused eyebrow.

"Would you mind introducing me?" Mrs. Feuerbach asks now, much more interested than before, her gaze now picked with curiosity and impatience.

"Of course, how rude of me. Darling, this is Mrs. Malise Feuerbach who just moved from New York to Boston a few days ago. Her late husband was one of my partners in New York. Mrs. Feuerbach, this is my wife Regina Blanchard." His gaze is drawn over to a woman, Jacqueline - 'Jack' - who is batting her eyes at him, waving. Oh, if she's lucky, he won't even come home with her tonight and she can live with that. It's nice when he doesn't force himself upon her for a change. He has his women, her husband, but she doesn't mind, not when all of this will be over soon anyway. She has a plan, has thought it out a while ago. When the clock hits twelve she will disappear, will go high up on top of the roof and experience what it is like to be free, to fly, before darkness will enwrap her.

"If you'll excuse me for just a second…" Leopold leaves them with a smile for Mrs. Feuerbach and a warning squeeze for Regina. _Behave_ , it says, but she is done listening to what he has to say. A few more hours to go and she will be gone.

Both women consider each other silently, before Mrs. Feuerbach gallantly loops her arm through Regina's and asks her to walk around the hall with her. Her arm is warm, her gloves soft, her perfume carries a whim of sweet mystery with it, which makes Regina think of the forbidden books she read before she was married, before her life became dominated by her husband and his petulant daughter. Ugh.

The people they are crossing are whispering and despite the fact Regina is drawn to Mal's - she asked her to call her Mal, not Malise, she hates that name - dark, deep, intriguing voice, she just cannot overhear what the others are saying. Now, after getting introduced to Mal and hearing the snippets of the other guests, she remembers the picture in the newspaper, the disgusting headline one of the gossip reporters chose. It's single words she remembers such as: _3 times widow, cold, reckless, calculating, murderer_. But they all should give her enough reason to be cautious of this woman.

Of course nobody knows what happened. It's just talk, as always, from everyone and no one. Everyone knows something, has heard something from the friend of a friend, from someone who knows someone who heard something on the street. But nobody really knows Mal, Regina thinks. And even if she's a murderer, even if she killed her husbands - oh, she's thought about that as well, but she can't, she's not the person to kill people - why would she care? Her life will be over in three hours. Spending these last three hours with a murderess seems far better than in the arms of her disgusting husband.

It is as if Mal feels her change of pace, and gives her a genuine smile while patting her hand. "So tell me Regina… What makes this party so special from all the others?"

Xxxxx

Everything that follows is an overwhelming mixture of feelings, of words which spin around and around in her head, repeat and repeat themselves until she feels warm, feels her cheeks flushed and pleasantly dizzy - this time she can tell it's not due to the champagne. Regina could swear that if anyone knew about her indecorous thoughts, they would put her into an asylum right away, where they would try to heal her from thoughts like these. But how can something that feels so good, so right, be wrong? It's once again something people think they know of, but clearly, they don't. Regina is thankful. Thankful after all this time she's allowed to feel something like this for the last time. She is thankful for the past few magic hours Mal gave her.

It is when the clock strikes twelve that she excuses herself. She squeezes Mal's hand, thanks her for the wonderful evening, but she has to go. It's all a blur, how Mal says something about her being Cinderella, and whether she turns into a pumpkin if she doesn't leave now, still, she embraces her quickly. A hug, a goodbye, which left a whiff of Mal's perfume linger in Regina's nose all the way up to the rooftop.

It's cold outside, freezing, but what does she expect? Winter is close, the smell of snowflakes hangs in the air and everyone who has experienced Boston's winters knows it is not going to be pretty. What a good thing she doesn't have to bother or think about this anymore. The lights of the city seem incredible up there where she stands. There is almost no sound; it's quiet. One step forward, one more, then another one until she reaches the balustrade of the rooftop. Twelve floors. How many seconds will it take?

 _Keep your eyes to the sky, don't look down,_ she tells herself, scared that if once she looks down, she will change her mind. But it doesn't come to that.

"Regina."

She freezes, grips the balustrade with her hands so hard she can see the white of her knuckles. It's her. Of course it's her. The only human who would care if she jumps is the woman who has probably killed three of her husbands, the woman she's met less than four hours ago. "Leave me alone."

"I can't, my little dove," Mal answers and for a moment she is glad she doesn't step closer toward her.

"Why?" She doesn't want to know but still asks. Deep down she's made up her mind, she wants to jump, wants to end this, but on the other hand… this woman followed her, came all the way up here. Why does she care?

"If you jump, they will think I pushed you. They will think I killed you."

"But you didn't," Regina insists.

"And how would they know? I could have."

"Like you killed your husbands?" The moment she says it, she knows she shouldn't have, but she's too upset, too angry, because Mal has ruined her plans, has stopped her from jumping and embracing her fate. Darkness. Death.

She doesn't answer, neither her eyes nor her face showing any kind of emotion at the accusation Regina has thrown at her. The chilly breeze racing up from the bottom of the streets engulfs them, makes both women shudder and for a moment Regina wishes with all her heart that someone would hold her, would keep her warm, would tell her everything would be okay. It wouldn't be though, that much was clear. She should do it now; otherwise people would start looking for her.

"There's always something worth living for," Mal whispers. She hasn't stepped any closer, is still a few feet away, but Regina closes her eyes, tries to concentrate on the noise of the wind makes, think of anything but her. Her back is tugged against the balustrade now. She just has to sit there, just has to let herself fall backward and she will be flying, will be free. So her hands move to her sides, lift her light body up, so she is sitting on the small sill of the balustrade now. Regina is ready. Ready to let go.

The problem is just, while she is ready, Mal isn't. It takes her less than three quick steps toward her, a tight grip on each of Regina's upper arms to pull her off the balustrade and right into her arms. There is a scream caught in Regina's throat, adrenaline rushing through her body. She is shaking, crying, but all of a sudden, there is the warmth she has been craving for so long, there are gentle touches and soothing rubs down her back and then… then, there are Mal's lips on hers. So soft, perhaps a bit sticky from her red lipstick, but smooth and gentle and warm and sweet. There's no stubble, no rotten breath, just tender pressure and the delicate tip of her tongue tracing the outlines of Regina's lips.

Regina opens her mouth, unable to say anything, too stunned, too hyped up to react, but when she feels Mal's tongue slipping inside her mouth, devouring her, she lets out a moan she didn't know she was capable of. Perhaps she's already dead. Perhaps she jumped and this is the last thing she thinks of before she hits the ground, but it feels real, oh-so-real! There had never been a kiss before Leopold, even though she wanted to, but her mother had made sure of it. So now, right here, she had the comparison between hell and pure heaven, felt wanted for the first time, felt… safe.

It is only when Mal stops and brushes her thumb over Regina's cheek in order to wipe away the tears, that she realizes this is very real. She wanted to kill herself, Mal prevented her, Mal kissed her. Mal saved her. Her body starts shaking now for entirely different reasons, uncontrollable sobs wrecked her body, but this time she isn't alone. Mal is holding her tight, is brushing her hair with her hand and tells her everything will be okay, that _she's_ going to be okay, that _they_ are going to be okay.

"Falling out of the nest isn't how you learn to fly, little dove. But I will show you - I promise."

Xxxxx

It's the night before Christmas, when there is a knock on the white entrance door of the elegant townhouse. Mal isn't expecting any guests, so she sends the butler to open up the door, tell the intruder she's busy, because all she wants to do is finish this book in front of the fireplace of the reading room. So when her butler announces Mrs. Regina Blanchard in a low voice, she is surprised, no, shocked, when she looks up to see her love standing in the doorway, arms wrapped around her too skinny body, wearing a fur coat, her face hidden behind a black veil. Mal's book is abandoned within seconds, her dressing gown falling loosely around her delicate figure.

"Regina…" With a wave of her hand, the butler is gone, knowing exactly what to do. Carefully she walks over to her love, takes off the hat she is wearing and lets it fall onto the floor with a shocked gasp when all she sees is red. Regina's face is cut, a bleeding upper lip and a bruise, as well as a bleeding eyebrow on her right eye. The blood is fresh, tickling into the white fur of the coat, drop by drop. Her eyes are shimmering with tears as she finally meets Mal's gaze.

"He knows." It's merely a whisper.

Mal lets it sink in, takes a moment, just a tiny moment to collect herself, before she guides Regina over to the sofa, urges her to sit down onto the green velvet with the rich embroidered cushions and look at her. The butler enters the room silently, a silver tray with cotton, a bowl of warm water, washcloths and towels, as well as a painkiller pill and band aids. She is looking at Mal as the woman takes the washcloth and dips it into the warm water. The touch of the cloth stings a bit, makes her flinch back, but Mal is quick to calm her down with a soft mumble, a caress of her free hand. She helps Regina take off the coat, throws it right into the fire to watch it burn, to watch the man burn who did this to her love!

Both women keep silent, each nursing their own pain. Regina, the physical and emotional one, the one she experiences every day, sometimes better, sometimes worse. And Mal, well, Mal feels the pain of watching her love suffer. Once all her wounds are cleaned and tended to as best as she can, Mal discards the cloth and everything else, pulls Regina up to lead her to the bedroom. She is weak, worn out, limbs a bit while walking, something Mal hasn't recognized before. The worst thing is the fact she's avoiding her gaze now, but never lets go of Mal's hand, the one Mal keeps tight in hers. What the hell did he do to her? Rage, all she feels now is endless rage toward the man who did this to her.

They enter the bedroom. Mal doesn't bother to switch on the light, knows Regina prefers the darkness right now. She leads her over to her side of the bed, helps her love shift out of her dress and into one of her own silken nightgowns. She's shivering, but Mal knows once they get settled under the covers, her little dove will be okay.

"Sleep on my side tonight," the blonde whispers soothingly, takes Regina's silence as confirmation as she draws back the covers and urges the young, broken woman next to her to get inside. She doesn't bother to walk around the bed to the other side, instead, she climbs in right after Regina, lets her settle against her chest and feels the hot tears dampening the fabric of her night gown.

"Shhhh, it's okay, Regina. You're safe now. I promise you."

"How?", Regina asks with a thick voice, trying to hold back the sobs, but Mal only smiles down at her while she plays with the thick dark curls of her hair that smell a bit like apple and vanilla. Regina wraps an arm around Mal, burying her head deeper into her chest. Mal holds her close, promising herself and Regina to never let her go again. Ever.

"They are going to arrest us. He told me, he will make sure of it, because… because this… this thing between us is wrong."

"How can something that feels so beautiful be wrong, Regina?" Mal wonders, but she doesn't receive an answer. Deep down she knows Regina doesn't mean it, knows she's just scared, frightened of what will happen. They haven't really talked about the 'what if's, only made sure to enjoy the here and now. Well, it was time to consider the 'what if's. She presses a kiss to Regina's forehead and receives a content sigh.

Regina is asleep within minutes from exhaustion, crying and pain.

Xxxxx

This time, it's not a knock on the door; it's someone ringing the bell in the wee hours of the morning, so early not even the butler or the housemaids are up. So the policeman has to wait outside in the cold for at least ten minutes until the butler grimly opens the door and bids him into the morning room, where he is supposed to wait for the lady of the house. He isn't offered tea or coffee, should feel offended, but let's be honest; he has more important stuff to tend to.

Regina and Mal enter the room at the same time, both clad in silken morning gowns, perfectly presentable. Regina's wounds and bruises are still visible, but the policeman doesn't really pay attention, because it's not his right to know what happened to the poor woman, is it?

Both woman sit down opposite of him, their hands clasped together in a tight grip, as if they were holding onto each other. The butler comes to serve the tea. It is only when both women have taken a sip, their eyes curiously locked on the policeman that he begins to speak.

"Mrs. Blanchard," he clears his throat. "I am sorry to tell you that your husband passed away last night."

Regina gasps, her eyes wide. The policeman says something else, even shakes her hand, but she realizes none of it, she is too far gone. What is she supposed to feel? How is she supposed to react? It is only when she's standing at the window, arms wrapped around herself that Mal walks up behind her to draw Regina back against her, with her nose nuzzling her neck.

"Merry Christmas, little dove."


End file.
